


As The Crow Flies

by theimmortalliz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Harlequin AU, M/M, Ridiculous romance, mcuharlequin challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimmortalliz/pseuds/theimmortalliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers, man out of time, takes his brand-new laptop to a coffee shop where a dark and mysterious stranger offers his technical expertise... (more notes inside)</p><p>Written for the MCU Harlequin Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twenty-First Century Man

**Author's Note:**

> So I tried to include as many Harlequin tropes as I could (perhaps you could play some kind of bingo), but given that this genre is a complete depart from what I usually write, I'm just impressed I finished. 
> 
> I chose the title as a little play on words - it's funny, because crows fly straight.

_ I was a high school loser, never made it with a lady, _ _  
T_ _ ill the boys told me somethin' I missed _

_(Aerosmith – Walk This Way)_

 

Steve Rogers took the subway two stops east to a coffee shop that hardly anyone had heard of, where he could be guaranteed some peace from the hectic pace of modern New York life. In his over-the-shoulder bag he carried a brand new laptop, of moderate specification and equipped with everything the salesperson could sell him and more (Steve had been far too polite to speak against the boy, and it wasn't as if he knew what he was talking about anyway). He had used the laptop before, inside his flat where no one could see him try and fail to get the computer to do what he wanted it to, but now he had the hang of word processing and other basic tasks he felt the need to venture out into the world of the Internet. There was no broadband at his flat, since he was out of his time he never saw sense in having it installed, but now he found himself longing to connect to the Internet to see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps he could start making some headway into researching the contents of his list.

 

The coffee shop was blissfully quiet, with only two hipsters too cool for working in an office occupying it, and amongst them Steve felt thoroughly out of place; they were children of another era, and here he was pretending at being a modern man with his laptop bag and detachable USB mouse. He took a deep breath and ordered his drink, white coffee, same as always (he did not have the time nor reason to venture into any of the more exotic-sounding drinks), and took up a seat near a power socket (just in case; he had no idea how long the battery would run for – the salesperson had told him, but it had gone straight over his head).

 

Connecting to the WiFi was blissfully simple – he had read up on the basics of the Internet in a book he had gotten out of the library, so he knew how to connect, but was dreading it asking him for a password or anything complex – and within seconds he was sitting in front of an open Internet Explorer page, with www.google.com in the address bar. The world was at his fingertips. And for the life of him he could not think what to search.

 

From his the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled his notebook, and he turned to the pages where he was keeping his list of things he needed to catch up on. It was as impressive as it was imposing, and he once feared he would never finish it; but that was before the Internet had been readily available in his favourite coffee shop, before he had owned a laptop, and now the world was his oyster. He looked down the list and decided on the Berlin Wall. Wikipedia was the first link to appear, underneath the advertisements (“Buy 'Berlin Wall' in your area now!”), so he clicked that and it opened slowly, the words unfolding before him like magic. The last to load was a tiny picture of the wall itself on the left, painted in bright colours. He frowned at the picture, not understanding how a tool of oppression could be so cheery, and decided on reading the article before he made any further judgements.

 

With the aid of the Internet, or with the aid of Wikipedia at least, he made record time crossing things off his list – first the Berlin Wall, then rap music (he declined to listen to any examples), then the plot synopses of several novels he would never have the time to read. Then he just began clicking on whatever seemed interesting, even if it wasn't something he had missed during his time in the ice – from Descartes to snare drums, he could learn about anything and everything all from the relative comfort of the coffee shop's armchair. It was a godlike position of power to be in and it made him marvel at the modern age. His coffee, half-drunk, went cold as he clicked around. He did not notice the man sitting behind him, eagerly watching his every move.

 

A few hours and two more cups of cold coffee later, and Steve's neck was beginning to ache with the constant hunching over the keyboard. He stretched, arching his back against the chair and pulling his arms, first one and then the other, across the back of his neck. His eyes were tired and he felt stiff – he had been sitting still for too long, he had to get out and walk somewhere, perhaps back to his flat rather than taking the subway. Sitting back in his chair, he went to close the Internet Explorer page currently open to Wikipedia's article on fencing.

 

Something was wrong.

 

The window didn't close, and instead another one opened – a small, grey box in the centre of the screen, flashing insistently at him. He tried closing the window again. Nothing happened, except the box gave another demanding flash, insisting that he read its message. He lent forwards over his keyboard, his back giving a small twinge of protest as he did so, and inspected the box closely.

 

You are the 1,000,000 th visitor to this page.

 

Please complete this survey.

 

Steve had been fully warned about viruses, Trojans, back-door exploits, whatever you called them, where they offered some sort of reward for clicking a button or offered a download from an unscrupulous source. This was different. It was so official, so understated; there were no flashing lights, no promises of cash or prizes, just a small grey box asking him to complete a survey.

 

_Innocent enough, right?_

 

His mouse hovered indecisively over the 'Okay' button.

 

The stranger behind him stood up, crossing the distance between their tables in a few brief strides.

 

“I wouldn't click that, if I were you.” 

 

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the stranger's voice. He thought he had been alone in the coffee shop, the two hipsters having since vacated the premises on the hunt for a Starbucks, but evidently he was wrong – the voice behind him was rough, as if from overuse, and he could smell the coffee and cigarettes on the man. Steve turned his head, taking in the stranger. He was dressed all in black; dark jeans, faded fashionably at the knees, black sweatshirt with the hood drawn up over his face as to cast half of his features into shadow. In one hand he held a coffee cup and the other rubbed his bearded chin.

 

“Excuse me?” Was all Steve could manage. 

 

“I said I wouldn't click that.” The stranger was regarding him with an expression partway between amusement and arrogance. It made Steve's cheeks turn pink and his stomach turn for reasons he couldn't articulate. “It's probably a virus.” 

 

“And you know this?” Said Steve, immediately on the defensive. He was suddenly embarrassed that he had considered clicking the 'Okay' button, even though it was hardly his fault for being caught off-guard by something so proper-looking. 

 

“I know computers.” Was all the stranger said by way of explanation. He smiled, and Steve knew he knew that smile but he just couldn't place it. The stranger sat down opposite Steve, falling heavily into the chair, and placing his coffee cup down on the table.

 

“You're Steve Rogers.” He said. It wasn't a question.

 

“That's right.” Steve said, automatically extending his hand even though the stranger had just invaded his table. The man took it, giving a firm, practised shake. 

 

“Tony.” 

 

“Tony...?” Steve said, attempting to elicit a more formal introduction.

 

“Just Tony. For now.” The man said, whimsically, one eyebrow raised in amusement at Steve. Another piece of his puzzle fell into place, but the picture was still unclear. Steve cleared his throat, attempting to suppress the redness of his cheeks and the squirming in his stomach. 

 

“So, Tony who-knows-computers, enlighten me. How did you know it was a virus?” Steve sat back in his chair, arms folded, regarding the man with some suspicion. _How long had he been watching?_

 

“You get a sixth-sense for that kind of thing. It'll take you a while to develop, probably. And maybe a few wrecked computers.” The stranger took a sip of his black coffee, leaning forwards in his seat over the table as if they were a pair of conspirators. “But I might be able to help you.” 

 

“Oh really?” Steve said, suppressing a laugh. First the man had invited himself to Steve's table, now he was offering his assistance? It was so bizarre Steve had to smile. The man seemed a little disgruntled by Steve's amusement but simply folded his hands on the table in front of him in response. “Well,” Steve said, considering the situation. “I guess I'm not in a position to say no to a little help.” 

 

The man smiled at him. Steve knew that smile.

 

*

 

They went off on tangents, discussing everything and anything that came to mind; once you got past his cocksure exterior, Tony was a remarkable conversationalist, talking enough to keep things flowing whilst making you feel like you were being listened to and thoroughly appreciated. He had an ease about him which made Steve feel at ease, and it was nice to just talk to someone without them fawning over him or constantly questioning him about what it was like to be in the second world war. Tony barely asked any questions of Steve at all, letting him talk about whatever he wanted; although, inevitably, it always came back to how he was a man misplaced in time. Tony put a hand over one of Steve's and gave it a brief, gentle squeeze, before withdrawing it and acting as if nothing had happened. It made Steve freeze mid-sentence, as much shocked by the display of familiarity as he was by the tightness in his stomach at it. Tony held up his hands in apology.

 

“Sorry. Here in the twenty-first century, we do things a little differently.” He smiled his easy smile, sitting back in his chair. Steve could not shake the feeling that had come over him, spreading out from his shoulders and down through his chest, both hot and cold at the same time, both making him want to run and making him want to say. “Relax,” Said Tony, “It's not as if I kissed you.” 

 

And that was enough to get Steve running.

 

He excused himself, politely, too politely, and walked with his head down towards the bathroom. He locked the door shut and looked at himself in the mirror.

 

_Get yourself together, Rogers._

 

For it was nothing, just a twenty-first century man doing twenty-first century things; it meant nothing, was nothing, and Steve needed to rid himself of the burning in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks.

 

_This is not what men do._

 

He could only remember having this feeling once before, when, alone in the darkness, Bucky had kissed him to celebrate New Years (because “Who else is going to kiss  _you_ ?”). They had spoken nothing of it afterwards, acted as if it had never happened, but it forever changed their friendship. Now he had that feeling again, the feeling of being too hot at room temperature, of his hands being ice-cold, of his stomach turning in on itself and his heart beating out of his chest. 

 

_This is not how to behave._

 

*

 

Tony had flipped the laptop around to face him, and was past the password with a couple of taps at the keyboard. The laptop was brand new, with no digital scars whatsoever – he was disappointed but not surprised, as he doubted there would have been anything useful he could have gauged from a laptop belonging to Steve Rogers. The man was a fossil and his digital footprint would have been non-existent. He sighed and shut the lid of the laptop, returning it to its original resting position.

 

When Steve returned from the bathroom he looked positively ill.

 

“Hey, what's up?” Tony said, lowering his voice and putting a hand on Steve's arm. 

 

“Nothing.” Said Steve, putting the laptop back in his bag. “Too much caffeine doesn't interact well with the serum.” He smiled, weakly, and slung the bag over his shoulder. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to say goodbye.” 

 

“Well, don't do it permanently.” Tony smiled, and Steve nodded to him. “Hey!” He called out, just as Steve was at the door. “I'm having a party tomorrow, do you want to come?” 

 

“Sure.” Said Steve, before he had time to think about what he was agreeing to. “Where is it?” The man gave him a smile as if he were being slow, before standing up and sauntering over to where Steve stood. 

 

“Here.” He said, taking hold of Steve's hand. He pulled a pen out from his pocket and jotted an address down on the back of Steve's hand. 

 

Steve knew the address.

 

*

 

Steve decided to walk home, not really fancying the subway during rush hour. He took the longer but prettier route via Times Square, stopping to look up at the billboards.

 

He knew he knew that smile.

 

“Tony Stark.” He muttered, a half-smile on his lips at his own stupidity, as the giant face of Tony Stark loomed over him from one of the billboards. Steve didn't care what he was advertising but he watched it anyway, just to watch Tony. 

 

_This is not how to behave, and I don't give a damn._

 


	2. Thow Parties Like Gatsby

_ I'll need a credit card that's got no limit _ _  
_ _ And a big black jet with a bedroom in it _ _  
_ __ Gonna join the mile high club at thirty-seven thousand feet

_(Nickelback – Rockstar)_

 

Steve could hear his mother's voice in his head as he smoothed down his hair in his bathroom mirror.

 

_Stand up straight._

 

_Comb your hair._

_  
Don't forget to thank the host for inviting you._

 

Although what his mother might think to him attending the kind of party Tony Stark was likely to throw, he did not know. He also did not care to wonder what his mother might think about the way he was beginning to feel about Stark, what she would say if he could tell her of the butterflies in his his stomach whenever he saw the man's face plastered around the city. But it did not matter what she might have thought, he told himself, perhaps a little harshly, because he was now living in a different time where different actions were appropriate in relation to one's feelings; still he could not help but feel a sick twinge of guilt in his chest whenever he caught himself daydreaming about the illustrious Tony Stark.

 

He had bought a bottle of wine to take with him; perhaps it was an outdated gesture, and it would not compare to the calibre of drink undoubtedly being served at the party, but he felt more secure with it in his hands. At the mirror in the hallway of his apartment he stopped again and reviewed his appearance (he had never been vain, but right now it felt important to look his best); his shirt was pressed perfectly, his tie positioned with military precision, and his hair had acquiesced to staying put in a neat side parting. He looked perfectly fine. This did not stop him from frowning at his reflection and combing his hair once more before stepping out of his flat.

 

*

 

The entrance to Stark Tower was as jaw-droppingly magnificent as he had expected, and then even more so. There was a line of expensive cars outside the building, half of them limousines, and two burly security officers who could rival even Steve for height and weight standing on either side of the open, double glass doors. Between them was a red velvet rope, barring entrance to anyone not deemed worthy enough to step inside the tower. Steve swallowed and began to walk up to the entrance.

 

“Name?” Said the right-most security guard as he stood between them, not so close to the velvet rope as to cause any kind of alarm but close enough to portray that he had, in fact, been invited. 

 

“Steve Rogers.” He said, surprised he had not been instantly recognised but at the same time a little bit grateful; there was already chatter behind him of people who did recognise him, and he knew that by morning the papers would be flying high on rumours of what such a clean-cut all-American hero was doing at one of Stark's parties. The security guard, who was all arm muscles and little else, checked the comparatively tiny clipboard he held in his hands. 

 

“You're on the list. Have a nice evening, _sir_.” He said, as if he resented having to say it, as he unhooked his end on the velvet rope and stepped across Steve with it, allowing him entrance to the atrium of the tower itself. 

 

“Have a nice night.” Steve said to the guard, getting no more than a grunt in response. 

 

*

 

Away from the flashes of the paparazzi's cameras and the squeals of girls waiting for their favourite superstars to get out of the cars, the atrium of the tower was almost eerily quiet. Steve listened to his own heavy footsteps as he crossed the marble floor, taking in his surroundings. The soldier in him clocked the exits first, but then the young man, who had grown up poor after the death of both his parents, took over and he began to marvel at the sheer decadence of the room. The ceiling was painted, ornate like a Roman chapel, and inlaid with what appeared to be real gold. The marble floor was pristine white and reflected the bright lights around him, giving the room an ethereal glow. At the back of the atrium was a marble staircase, an unworn red and gold carpet protecting people from slips, and standing in front of it was a butler in a suit.

 

Steve was halfway across the room when the butler addressed him.

 

“Good evening, sir.” There was no hint of sarcasm or growling reluctance; this man was one-hundred percent professional. He even gave Steve a little bow, which made him feel more than just a little bit uncomfortable. He was out of place here. He had grown up in the suburbs, not on the poverty line but then barely above it, and such opulence was beyond him. He inclined his head towards the butler in a show of solidarity. 

 

“Good evening.” 

 

“Will sir be taking the stairs or the lift this evening?” The butler asked, hands neatly folded in front of his stomach. Even his suit was more expensive than Steve's and noticing so made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked at the marble stairs, fifteen or so steps to the mezzanine level then they made a left turn off into eternity, and decided on the lift. 

 

“The, uh, the elevator.” Said Steve, unable to stop himself from stuttering. He felt helpless, powerless, and he hardly knew what to do with himself.

 

“Very good, sir. The party is on the penthouse level, take the lift all the way to the top.” The butler extended one hand towards the lift and, as if on cue, the doors opened. Steve could not help but raise his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Thanks very much.” He raised a hand to the butler who again gave him a neat little bow of the torso, and stepped into the lift. 

 

“Good evening, sir.” Said a mechanical voice from nowhere. Steve turned around, expecting to see a porter standing behind him, but there was no one. He cleared his throat.

 

“Good evening.” He said, to no one, feeling a little ridiculous. 

 

“Might I assume you want the penthouse?” Said the voice. The lift was already moving. 

 

“Uh, sure, I mean yes.” Said Steve, cheeks turning slightly pink. “Sorry if this is improper, but what are you?” 

 

“Not at all, sir. I am an artificial intelligence: I am everywhere and anywhere Mr Stark needs me to be. Tonight, that is manning the lift.”

 

“Okay. Thanks.” Steve said, his confusion no less as he made a mental note to add 'artificial intelligence' to his list of things to research. The doors of the lift opened.

 

“Have a good evening, sir.” The voice said. Steve turned to wish the voice a good evening, but the doors to the lift had already closed. 

 

*

 

The party was loud and vivacious, with people pulling in every direction and assaulting every sense. Another butler, shorter this time, took the bottle he had been clutching in his hands. Without it he felt naked.

 

He stepped away from the doors of the lift and sidled towards the side of the room, ending up standing next to a pot plant which looked healthy enough but Steve could always tell when a plant had been neglected in the past. He frowned at it and it remained impassive, a bleak beacon of something wholesome in this den of debauchery.

 

“Hey, stranger.” Said someone in a low, purring voice like a Jaguar's engine at his right elbow. He pulled himself out of his musings and turned, his heart a flutter as he knew who it was going to be. 

 

“Tony Stark.” He said, smiling on autopilot as his mind raced and his stomach did a quick somersault. He extended a hand and Tony shook it, firmly yet softly, and his hand lingered in Steve's palm for longer than truly necessary. Tony smiled at him, but not the same smile he had been shown in the coffee shop, not the same smile that was plastered all over billboards across New York; this smile had something hungry in it. “You sure throw one heck of a party.” 

 

“Don't I just?” Tony said, smile wider, more warm and welcoming and yet more vicious, as he pounced on a passing cocktail waitress (who wasn't wearing much of anything), grabbing two drinks from the tray she was carrying. Steve watched the waitress walk away, her hips swaying, with his eyebrows furrowed. 

 

“You like what you see?” Tony asked, snapping Steve out of his reverie. His smile had shifted somehow.

 

“I wasn't -” Steve started, before Tony put a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. 

 

“ _Relax._ ” He said, giving Steve's shoulder the slightest of squeezes. He withdrew his hand and put it in his pocket. “She's pretty.” He said, with a nod of his head towards the waitress, who was busily serving a glitzy-looking couple ten feet ahead. 

 

“She's not my type.” Steve said, shrugging his shoulders. It wasn't a lie; she was blonde, a bad dye job, and Steve liked brunettes, but if he was brutally honest with himself he hadn't come to this party to look at girls at all. 

 

“Really.” Tony purred, sipping his drink. “I wonder who is.”

 

*

 

Hands, everywhere, caressing, grabbing, scrabbling for purchase, pulling at shirts and fumbling ties loose. Like every other room the cloakroom was huge but it felt so small, like the walls were caving in as the darkness pressed on them, pressed them together, so there was nothing but Steve and Tony and the crushing blackness.

 

Beneath their feet were coats, piles of them, expensive fur and Italian leather, their own suit jackets, coming off their hooks as Tony, with a surprising amount of weight, slammed Steve into one of the walls. It was cool against his back, sending chills up his spine that were nothing to do with Tony's hot hands on him.

 

Teeth, biting, pulling at shirt collars, lips kissing all bare skin they could find, Steve's head thrown back as Tony kissed his neck, his chest, any part of him he could reach.

 

More slowly, Tony brought his roaming hands upwards, past his stomach, past his chest, brushing his nipples through his shirt and up to his neck, then on to his face, hot palms pressed against Steve's glowing cheeks, the only thing he could see in the darkness being the glint in Tony's eye.

 

For a moment Tony held his face still, breath mingling as they panted, regaining themselves as much as their breath, before gently, ever so gently, Tony pressed his lips against Steve's.

 

It was like letting a firework loose inside Steve's head.

 

All of his senses simultaneously overloaded; the smell of Tony's cologne, the oppressive darkness against his eyes, the heat of Tony's hands as they moved back down his body, the softness of his lips versus the roughness of his stubble, as he kissed Steve again, hungrily, viciously, one hand sliding inside his shirt to tease his nipple, the other trailing down his stomach and towards his belt buckle.

 

With two tugs it was free, and Tony broke the kiss just long enough to cast it aside, and Steve knew at that moment he would never find it again. His waistband was just loose enough for Tony to slip a hand inside.

 

Everything stopped with Steve's sharp intake of breath.

 

The world froze except for Tony, still animate, who slid his hand back up Steve's body to rest on his chest, briefly, before bringing both hands up to his neck. He held Steve's face, gently, and kissed him softly on the lips.

 

Whispering sweet reassurances to him he stepped back, bringing Steve with him, allowing him to get away from the wall, to give him some space, to let him make his own decisions. He never for a second let go of Steve, holding his hand, stroking his neck, coaxing reaction out of him.

 

As suddenly as he had frozen, Steve knew what he must do.

 

His hands found Tony's hips, thumbs pressing over the bone, eliciting the smallest of gasps from Tony's lips. He allowed his hands to slip to Tony's back, exploring his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine, his toned buttocks. Tony continued to kiss him, the bite coming back to his lips as his fingertips brushed the front of Steve's trousers. Steve, half hard, shuddered at the touch.

 

“C'mon.” Tony growled, and before he knew what had happened Steve was on top of him, lost in the pile of coats on the floor. 

 

His hands slipped and fumbled over Tony's belt buckle, eventually sliding it loose enough to get at the button on his fly. Tony had made light work of Steve's trousers, which now slipped down far enough to allow a hand inside his pants. Steve shuddered but remained focussed, quickly working Tony's fly loose. In one swift movement his pants were around his knees and his cock was touching Tony's; brushing together so briefly it might not have happened was enough to make Steve gasp and shake. Tony pulled him close, one hand around his waist, the other gently teasing Steve. Not without hesitation he put one hand around the base of Tony's cock, feeling its impressive girth, gently stroking upwards whilst Tony gasped and whispered devilish encouragement in his ear. The hand that was not gripping his hip was now stroking his own member, slowly at first but quickly picking up speed and falling into a rhythm that was enough to make Steve want to come.

 

He restrained himself, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, matching Tony's rhythm – Tony arched his back and moaned, the only noise to break the sound of their quick and fevered breaths, and soon he was stroking Steve harder and harder as he reached his own climax, until both of them came with a cry which seemed loud enough to shake the whole tower.

 

Steve slumped on one side of Tony; breathing hard. Tony stroked his hair, his neck, and kissed his softly on the lips.

 


	3. Play-Boy With His Play-Toy

_I want your drama_ _  
_ _The touch of your hand_ _  
_ _I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand_

_(Lady Gaga – Bad Romance)_

 

Steve woke up in his own bed, with little recollection of how he got home, with little recollection of anything at all except for _Tony_. The taste of him on his lips, the feel of his hands in his hair, he could remember it all as clearly as if it were happening right now. He wished to God it were all happening right now. Then he stopped, for fear it might be blasphemous, and rolled out of bed and into the shower.

 

No sooner had he got out, dripping wet and glistening in the early morning light, did the phone ring. His head pounded with each earsplittingly-loud ring, so he answered it as soon as possible.

 

“Morning, sunshine.” Said an all-too-cheery voice on the other end of the phone. Steve groaned and dropped down onto his bed.

 

“I feel far from being like sunshine.” He said to Tony, who laughed mercilessly at him.

 

“I'm not surprised.” He could see the grin on Tony's face, wide and amiable but at the same time just a touch dangerous, and even the very thought of it made his stomach flip. “I was just calling to say I've got a function to go to tonight. And you're coming with me.”

 

“Oh?” Said Steve, good-humoured but still curious despite himself.

 

“I need a date.” Tony said, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

 

*

 

For a long time Steve simply sat on his bed, head in his hands, stinging eyes thankful of the darkness, his towel growing damp around his waist. He was going on a date. He thought about it very carefully, weighed up the times in his head.

 

This was the first date he'd been on since he got out of the ice.

  
No, to be more accurate, this was the first date he had been on. Ever.

 

He groaned again, his stomach doing a more sickly flip at the thought of having to go on a date, and contemplated calling Tony back and saying he couldn't attend. It was hopeless, surely; a guy like him, a boy from Brooklyn, lost in time, and a guy like Tony, suave, sophisticated, _loaded_. Why would Tony ever be interested in _him_?

 

Just as he was thinking about calling Tony to say he was too unwell – the hangover would explain that white lie, surely – when the phone rang again.

 

“Only me.” Said Tony in his sing-song voice. “A car will be outside your place in fifteen minutes.”

 

“Really? Why?” Steve said, unable to hide his confusion. The function Tony had spoken of would not be until the evening, surely, although he supposed that people as important as Tony had breakfast and dinner functions too.

 

“We're going shopping.”

 

*

 

A tuxedo, a Rolex, and a pair of shoes later, Steve felt like he was carrying a totally new man inside the shopping bags Tony was continually loading him down with. And he hadn't paid for a thing. All it took was a flash of Tony's credit card, or in the establishments where he was more notorious it took simply a flash of his smile, and another box was in Steve's arms.

 

It felt strange, to say the least, living in the public eye as Tony did. Whereas Steve, even as Captain America, shied away from the press, Tony courted them, played with them, brought them out and made them bow down to him. Steve was thankful he had Tony to hide behind, to follow his example, because without him he would have felt totally overwhelmed. His shy little smile was nothing in comparison to Tony's practised grin.

 

Tony insisted they stopped for coffee, so they and their entourage of assistants and paparazzi also stopped for coffee; on Tony's instruction Steve gave the pile of bags and boxes to two of Tony's assistants, apologetic for their weight and awkward size. They didn't seem to mind and disappeared off to one of Tony's many cars with them. Tony didn't need to order drinks, the barista seemed to know exactly what they wanted and immediately brought it over to them without so much as a question. Tony paid and tipped generously, and exchanged flirtatious words with the waitress (to such an extent that Steve began to blush at the suggestions Tony was making).

 

“Don't mind her.” Tony said to Steve, seeing the red touch in his cheeks and the way he was suddenly avoiding eye contact. “Just a little something to keep the girls sweet, you know what I mean?”

 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Steve muttered, completely unsure what Tony was talking about; of course he had female admirers, hoards of them, but he had never considered flirting with them, much less in the way that Tony did. Tony put a hand over Steve's clenched fist.

 

“Hey.” He said, voice lowered enough so that the paparazzi would not be able to hear them over the sudden flutter of flash bulbs. “It's innocent. A bit of fun.” He squeezed Steve's hand.

 

“I know.” Steve said, voice sulking and low. He could hardly believe that, for all his talk, Tony was only interested in him. It seemed impossible.

 

“Jesus Christ.” Tony muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Do I have to do this to convince you?”

 

“Do wh-” Steve started, but he couldn't finish; Tony had stood up, both hands on the table, and was suddenly kissing him, full on the lips, passionately, the flashes of the paparazzi going crazy in the background giving the whole thing a Hollywood, movie-star feel; and Steve did feel like a movie star, like an astronaut, like everything great in the world when Tony kissed him. For a moment he even forgot where they were, forgot about the flash bulbs and the scribbling on reporters' notepads and the cries from the gaggle of girls that had been following them. He was with Tony, and it was brilliance.

 

*

 

He went home with Tony, in the back of his custom-built limousine, where the man simply could not keep his hands to himself. He was all over Steve and Steve was enjoying it, to say the least; their mouths were locked in a viciously passionate kiss, teeth biting lips and tongues pushing into each other's mouths. Tony had one had on the back of his neck, pulling him close, making sure he couldn't get away, fingers gripping his hair and palm running up and down his neck; his other hand was down the front of Steve's trousers, massaging, slowly, teasingly, bringing Steve's burgeoning erection out of his fly so he could rub it's full length with his palm. Steve moaned into the kiss, pulling Tony's hips closer, thumbs pushing on the bones, until he was close enough to feel his semi-hard cock through his trousers.

 

“Sir? We're here.” Said the driver, though the opaque screen separating the back from the front.

 

“ _Fuck.”_ Was all Tony could manage in between gasps.

 

“Let's take this inside.” Steve purred against Tony's neck, nipping at the soft flesh beneath his lips.

 

*

 

They barely made it to the penthouse in one piece; in the lift they were all over each other, Steve picked Tony up and slammed him against the wall, hands massaging his legs, his buttocks, holding him up against the mirrored wall of the lift whilst Tony pulled at Steve's hair, at his shirt, at anything he could get his hands on whilst they kissed, moaning into each other's mouths.

 

They stumbled out of the lift, Steve putting Tony down just long enough for them to get over the threshold, before he picked him up again.

 

“That way.” Tony gasped, against Steve's lips, pointing behind him in the direction of the master bedroom.

 

*

 

Life with Tony was never going to be anything except complicated.

 

As he lay back on the bed, drunk on the endorphins which were racing through his brain, he thought about exactly how complicated it would be.

 

First there was the media, already brewing up a storm about how Tony Stark had picked himself up a man. Then there was their backgrounds; he, a soldier, not just any soldier but Captain America, and Tony the billionaire playboy philanthropist who just happened to be Iron Man. And not to mention how SHIELD might react to the news.

 

But it would be worth it.

 

How or why he did not know, but it would be worth it.

 

“Shower's all yours, sweetheart.” Said Tony, sticking his head around the door to the ensuite, a cloud of steam billowing out behind him. “C'mon.” He said, crossing the room completely naked, making Steve blush and attempt to avert his gaze; Tony laughed, grabbing his wrist. “I'll give you a hand.”

 

Yes, it would be worth it. 


End file.
